The Trappings of Humanity
by hoktauri
Summary: Rodney's long-forgotten existential crisis comes to the surface when, on the Daedalus while returning from Earth, John tries to get him to talk about something Jeannie told him.


Jeannie Miller called it "Rodney's Theory of Nothingness."

She couldn't explain it, exactly, but John found it unsettling all the same.

If John understood Jeannie at all, it was Rodney's answer to the attempt at a Theory of Everything, a negation of the idea that everything could be unified and understood from a single standpoint. He still made his own attempts at Everything, but it was mostly an exercise in understanding where the field of physics was headed so he could debunk the bullshit before it could spread too far.

It wasn't as Zen as it sounded, either. Jeannie figured it had its culmination in a dark moment in Rodney's life where he experienced an existential crisis of such grand proportions that he had to quantify it somehow and make it everyone's problem. Part of John was glad he wasn't there to see Rodney like that, and another part of him wished he had been. As if he would've known how to help him carry such a burden. John had had his own run-in with the problem of existence himself, but he muddled through it eventually, the way all teenagers do.

It wasn't something John would normally bring up in conversation, but it didn't sound like anything John normally heard from Rodney either. Dr. Rodney McKay, genius astrophysicist, prone to excesses of ego that eclipsed those of every superior officer John ever had, who single-handedly destroyed five-sixths of a solar system, who was exceptionally brilliant at convincing anyone who would listen—scratch that, convincing everyone anyway—that the universe(s) really did revolve around him.

That first day on the Daedalus, as they were bound for home once more, John kept things light. He didn't want to broach what could potentially be a sensitive subject. Even though Jeannie treated Rodney's Theory as something to roll her eyes at, John couldn't do that. He didn't discount what Jeannie knew about her brother; he simply knew him in a different way, limned by the Pegasus Galaxy and all its potential for tragedy.

The second day, John lost his nerve. Rodney was playing with the new GPS Jeannie had bought him—- more of a gag gift, John suspected, but all the same, Rodney was re-writing the programming and naming the corridors in Atlantis so that anyone who used it wouldn't get lost. Not too lost, anyway. Rodney told John that anyone who programmed the chair room as their destination would be led to a transporter on one end of the city that spat you out at the other end—and started the directions all over again.

He wanted to keep the new kids as far from the control chair as possible.

Rodney was having fun, and John didn't want to dampen it, so he kept his mouth shut for another day.

The third day, John forgot about it until Colonel Caldwell started waxing philosophic about the vast emptiness of space, how it wasn't like traveling through air or water. _Nothing stirred and nothing thrived. It wasn't natural._

John furrowed his brow, said a terse, "Yes, sir," and went to find Rodney when Caldwell dismissed him.

He found Rodney, coffee mug and laptop in hand, strolling the corridor toward his room.

"Hey, buddy," John called out as nonchalantly as possible. He could swear he heard the note of tension in his own voice, but Rodney didn't seem to notice it.

"Hey, Sheppard," he replied, opening the door to his quarters. John followed without invitation. "Something on your mind?"

"Why do you ask?" Now he was on the defensive. This was already going worse than he had planned.

"You just look all-—thinky," Rodney said, motioning to his own forehead.

John chuckled, swiped at his brow, as if he could wipe away the wrinkles that threatened to give him away.

"Just wanted to chat," John said.

"Oh, no," Rodney said, his face falling. "What'd you break?"

"What?" John asked, taken by surprise.

"Well, you have that puppy-dog look in your eyes that you always get when you don't want me to yell at you for something—-like breaking a thing."

"A thing?" John licked his lips, barreled through. "No, nothing's broken, Rodney."

"Then what is it?"

John stepped forward, pulled Rodney to sit beside him on the bed.

"Oh, this is the part where you tell me you want me off the team, isn't it?" Rodney sighed, sounding suddenly exasperated. "I figured it would come one day, but I just didn't figure—"

"I'm not kicking anyone off the team, I just want to ask you a question."

"Oh. Well. That's good, then. Ask away."

"Why would you think I'd want you off the team?"

He figured that would be the easier question for Rodney to answer—or the easier one for John to ask.

Rodney swallowed hard, his once-light expression now sunken. "I just… I don't know. It was a fear of mine, that first year. I don't even know why I said that."

"Fears have a way of following us," John said. "Even when we've let them go."

Rodney nodded.

"Actually, what I wanted to ask," John said, pausing to take a sharp breath of air, "is about something Jeannie mentioned."

The outburst John expected didn't happen; whatever horror stories Jeannie held of their childhood, Rodney seemed to no longer care that John knew them. He simply folded his arms and waited.

"What's the Theory of Nothingness?" John asked, with as curious a tone as possible, thinking perhaps if Rodney thought he was simply adding to a repertoire of knowledge, he'd just explain it in simple terms and John could let it go. Maybe it wasn't anything John should be worried about; maybe Jeannie had the right idea in dismissing it.

Rodney's face said otherwise.

"She told you about that?" he said softly.

John stood from the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to pry— I just— Rodney, you're part of my team. I just need to know if I should be… _concerned_ about it."

"What did she say, exactly?" Rodney asked, curt and professional.

_Damage control,_ John thought. Rodney wanted to know how to mitigate the upheaval before he revealed anything that John didn't already know.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing this was going to be tougher to get through than he had anticipated.

"She said you came up with it in college," John said, starting with the simple stuff. "She thinks it was your answer to the Theory of Everything." He stopped. Even as he remembered something else Jeannie had said, he couldn't bring himself to repeat it. He knew then that it wasn't a dismissal on Jeannie's part, the way he first thought. She'd intentionally revealed as little as possible about where the theory came from, calculating that John would be curious and concerned enough to ask Rodney about it.

"What else?" Rodney asked, his eyes glassed over.

"She called it…" John paused, hoping Rodney wouldn't shut down right there in response. He realized that was a very real possibility. "She called it an existential crisis packaged as science."

Rodney smirked, but there was no humor behind it.

"That sounds about right," he confirmed.

John sat down on the bed again, waiting, hoping he wouldn't have to push him to open up.

"Nothing matters," Rodney said quite simply. "That pretty much sums it up."

John sighed. "Don't make me ask you again," he whispered.

Rodney took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He unfolded his arms, rubbed his palms against the thighs of his pants. "Essentially, the Theory of Nothingness states that meaning and purpose are human creations. That nothing else in existence recognizes such concepts, and that evolution occurred at some point in our ancestry to allow us to extrapolate supernatural causation because otherwise we'd recognize the futility of life and cease to propagate the species."

He paused, licked his lips, and stared at his hands resting palm up in his lap. He'd rattled it off as if reading it from a textbook, as though it were any other collection of ideas taught in universities across the world.

"So it states that, basically, nothing matters," Rodney summed up.

"Is that what you think?" John asked.

Rodney sighed. "It's not really about that," he said.

His body language was telling John the opposite. Rodney was nervous about this conversation, John could easily tell, and he only kept talking in the hopes that John would believe the lie he was telling both of them: that it was only a flurry of ideas that Rodney drummed up in college, probably out of boredom with all the pre-requisite social science classes.

"So, according to this theory," John said carefully, "nothing we do in Pegasus will matter, not outside of the meaning we give to it?"

Rodney nodded. "Yeah, that's pretty much it. Penny for the smart man."

"So _you_ don't matter," John said. He hoped it would jar something in Rodney, get him arguing and flailing because anything was better than this resigned position he'd suddenly adopted.

Rodney only shook his head.

"And I don't really matter either?"

Rodney at least looked at John when he answered him. "According to the theory."

"And according to you?"

Rodney puffed out a breath, put his face in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with anger. "It's not about what I think."

"You came up with it," John replied.

"Yes, but it's—it's not about what I think, it's a _general_ notion regarding human beings, in _general_."

John could see he was starting to push the right buttons, so he charged forward, hoping any ensuing damage to their friendship wouldn't be irreparable.

"So, in _general_, Ronon and Teyla don't matter?"

"Of _course_, they matter!" Rodney said, standing, arms flung wide one moment, one finger jabbing at his own chest the next. "They matter _to me_, but that's not the point!"

"Then what is the point, Rodney?"

"The point is that, ultimately, none of it means anything! This ship, this galaxy, the planets, the cities, the feats of engineering. Earth, Atlantis, the fossil record, the art museums, all our technology—everything. All the trappings of humanity! None of it means shit, when you boil it all down, everything's just a transfer of energy. Matter is an expression of potential energy, that, when deconstructed, yields kinetic energy; and, re-formed, becomes an entirely new expression of potential energy." Rodney paused to give in to a fit of nervous laughter. "Even the very _emotion_ I'm feeling right now-it's a lie. It's just energy traveling through impulses from one neuron to the next, and I have to feel it, because it's there, in whatever form I put it into my body, it's now breaking down!." He chuckled again, his laughter now hysterical, and he looked at John with wide eyes. "It's an emotional _breakdown_."

John sighed, the sigh of a man who knows what he's hearing is wrong, maybe technically right, but really totally wrong otherwise, and he knew no way to contradict any of it with human language.

"It's going to happen one day, Sheppard. No matter how far we push out, humanity will, one day, cease to exist. The entire universe will collapse, and they're'll be another Big Bang, and it'll all start over completely, the true square one. Eventually, someday, it _will_ happen. Everyone dead and gone."

"Yeah?" John said, his ire peaking. "Well, that day isn't today, and it isn't tomorrow."

"You can't possibly know that!"

"Hello! Guy Who Went to the Future, standing right here, remember?"

"Yes, a future we have since _altered_, which means we are on a completely different timeline, which means you have no idea what's coming next!"

"And neither do you!" John shot back. "The world's not over yet, McKay. We _are_ here, right now, in this moment and right now it _matters_!"

Then John did something he never expected, something he always imagined planning the first time he did it. Grabbing Rodney's arms, he pulled him close and kissed him so hard that he could feel his own pulse pounding in his lips, could feel Rodney's answering pulse thrumming in response as John's hands made their way around Rodney's face and neck. Rodney's face was wet, tears streaming down his cheeks, the tears unexpected and holy. John felt like he was trying to push something into Rodney, some kind of hope or truth or instinct. That Rodney returned the kiss just as feverishly, groping for him and not pushing him away, told John he was close to accomplishing that. But it was words that Rodney needed more— it was words that would move him through the logic of what John knew as easy as breathing.

"Are you saying—" John's voice cracked as he spoke. "Are you saying _this_ doesn't matter?" He kissed him again, his tongue crossing the barrier of Rodney's lips in desperate exploration. Every time he pulled away, Rodney moved closer, drawn into John's gravity. "Are you saying _this_ will one day cease to exist?"

Rodney stared at him, gripping John's biceps so tight in order to hold himself up, shaking his head. "I don't want it to…"

"Then don't let it."

"It's not up to me, I'm not… I'm not God, I'm not even an ascended Ancient. God, I don't want this to be gone…" His voice broke over every word, and he clung to John, soaking his shoulder in tears.

"I'd say this is a pretty powerful expression of energy," John said against Rodney's cheek, finding his own sight blurring as he tried to keep his emotions in check. The words came fast and unplanned. "Just because we can break it down to the sum of its parts—that doesn't make it any less—anything meaningless."

"Tell me what's coming next," Rodney whispered, gulping against the words. "I can't—I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

John held Rodney tightly to him, tethering him, one hand stroking the back of his head. "I know what I'm doing, Rodney," he said, pressing his lips to Rodney's ear, his temple, his forehead. "I need you to trust me. I need you to let go of the microscope and see me with your own eyes. Let me carry you, Rodney."

He felt Rodney nod against him. "I can do that," he said, his words muffled in John's t-shirt. "I think."

"Think about atoms," John said. "Full of empty space. Like they're full of nothing. You could just run your hand right through them."

Rodney started shaking his head, pulling away. "Not helping, John. That's not—"

John pulled Rodney's hands into his own. "Solid," he whispered. He put Rodney's hands on his chest, beating his own torso with Rodney's palms. "I'm solid, Rodney. I'm here, I'm-" He wasn't sure how else to explain it. He had a rough idea of where he wanted to go with the idea, but the words stuck in his chest, unformed. The tears that threatened to surface on his own face finally won the fight. He was going to lose him on this… He was going to lose him before he had him. Then John would be nothing but empty space.

But Rodney got it. Rodney found the words they both needed.

He reached up to John's face with sturdy, gentle hands, slowly wiping the tears away. John clung to him, hands bound up in Rodney's shirt, tugging him closer, their foreheads touching.

"So what you're saying…" Rodney said softly, "is that you're my density?"

John sniffled, stared at Rodney. Of course, those would be the words he chose. Then John felt a smirk taking over and a laugh escaped his throat before he could stop it, gasping it back. He hoped it wouldn't set him back in the struggle to bring Rodney out of his emotional corner.

But then Rodney was laughing, too.

"I can't believe you just said that," John said, the tears drying tacky on his skin. He pulled Rodney back into his arms, where he belonged.

"I can't believe Jeannie told you about the Theory," Rodney replied.

"She cares about you," John said. "I do, too."

"I couldn't tell by the way you mauled at me just now," Rodney said, and they both laughed again.

Then they both seemed to realize they were still holding each other. The ecstatic emotion waned around them, and John felt open and vulnerable. Rodney had no idea how much power he had over him right then, or ever, really. John's own theories of nothingness danced in the background of his thoughts, a soundtrack to some inevitable collapse he would enter if Rodney were to let him go. To never have this again, Rodney so close and breathable and _his_, would leave John with some kind of singularity in his chest, a yawning black hole right where his heart should be.

"_This_ is solid," Rodney said finally, his breath ghosting against John's throat as he drew him close again.

"Yeah, buddy," John replied, anchoring himself in Rodney's embrace. "It is."

"Square one," Rodney said. "Right here. What do you think? I mean, everything's going to be different now."

"I know," John said, sucking in as much air as his lungs would carry. "I wasn't  
expecting to do that, ya know."

"Do what?" Rodney said, stepping back. "Cause me to have a freak-out?"

"Kiss you," John said quietly. "I wasn't planning to kiss you."

"Oh," Rodney said. "Well, you obviously wanted to."

John snorted. "Hell, yes, I did."

"We just have to plan new forms of energy transference from now on," Rodney said, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth the way John always liked.

"We could start right now," John said, pushing Rodney toward the bed as he pressed their lips together once more.

"Yes, please," Rodney mumbled.

The bed dipped as Rodney laid back, John half-straddling him, one leg hooked around Rodney as the other slid between Rodney's legs.

"Just…" Rodney breathed against the heat of John's lips. John's hand was on Rodney's belt, tugging at it. "Wait…" he whispered.

John paused, taking in Rodney's worried expression. "What is it?"

"I just—I don't want—" Rodney faltered.

"You don't want to… have sex?" John offered.

Rodney sighed. "I've got all this energy, and these thoughts, and you make sense, but if we do that now I'll lose it all. You said the world's not over yet, and I have to let go of the microscope. But I need you to carry me. Tonight, I just need you to be solid."

John ducked his head, laying it on Rodney's shoulder. "Solid."

"Please?" Rodney whispered, as if he were afraid John would say no. As if John could ever say no to him.

John rolled them on the bed into a more comfortable position, nestled Rodney against him. He felt Rodney's iron grip around his torso, unsure of how much longer he would be solid when Rodney kept looking at him that way. His solidity threatened to sublimate with every nuzzle of Rodney's nose against his neck, as if he kept trying to reassure himself that John was still there. Still solid.

"I've got you, buddy," he said, pressing a firm kiss to Rodney's lips. "I'm right here."


End file.
